


Breadcrumbs

by Huggle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, canon level violence, off-screen D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which an early case for the boys provides piecemeal information on the number, the situation, and each other.  In which John thinks Harold should share relevant information, Harold thinks it's his decision what is relevant, but he accepts that John does worry.  Maybe just about where his next paycheck will be coming from or maybe about more than that.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Breadcrumbs

“I assure you, I asked for lemon. Lemon. This is not lemon.”

“...and I don’t know why you even asked me here, if you just wanted to tell me that....”

“If I say yes, have the cheesecake, and you can’t get into that dress on Friday, somehow it’ll be my fault.”

It was all background noise, and Finch treated it as such. Tuned it out mostly, though he retained an attentiveness for anything that might be a cause for concern, and let his eyes wander the restaurant while making it look like innocent curiosity.

A diversion for a man eating alone.

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

He didn’t jump, and was rather pleased with himself over it. He did look up at John, and frowned at the impertinent smirk he received in return.

“What would you recommend?” he asked, waspishly. Only three weeks into their working relationship and he’d already seen that Reese was a pusher of boundaries.

“The duck’s good.”

“The duck-” Harold closed his eyes briefly. Another thing he’d observed was that his new employee was very good at inducing migraines. “There isn’t duck on the menu, Mr. Reese.”

“No? I’ll have a word with the management.”

Harold closed his menu with a snap. “Salad.” 

“Would sir like anything to drink?”

Harold stared at him until John tucked the order pad back into his apron. “I hope you don’t expect a tip.”

He watched John head to the kitchen. A little more time to organise a more suitable cover would have been preferable, but since their latest number – the restaurant owner/manager – virtually lived out of the establishment the odds of him getting into trouble anywhere else were minimal. 

But the restaurant’s high staff turnover had been an opportunity – and possibly a clue – that couldn’t be ignored. So it really had been the best possible way of infiltrating their number’s daily routine and investigating that peculiarity.

All the same, other than his deliberate misbehaviour at his table, Finch had to admit John made sure he looked and acted the part with every customer. If he wasn’t careful, the restaurant manager might offer John a permanent job here – provided he wasn’t a perpetrator rather than a victim. If that proved to be the case, the man’s opinion on Mr. Reese might go sharply downhill.

Still, Harold was sure his benefits package could easily surpass anything Elliot Baxter could offer John.

Baxter himself appeared then from the kitchen. He did a walkthrough of the restaurant, engaging briefly with this diner or that one, appearing every inch the affable boss. It was off somehow, though – perhaps in the way his eyes lingered too long on some tables and the way he ignored some staff but put his hands on others to instruct them out of his way. 

He passed Harold’s table, and Harold took the opportunity to force pair their phones.

The tactic didn’t yield much in the way of pertinent information, just several texts sent over the course of the past week to someone called Peter L.

Peter L it appeared wasn’t interested in responding. Finch pondered on that and started a reverse directory search on the mobile number. In the meantime, he skimmed through the sent messages and saw why they had gone unanswered. 

Also, that Baxter did not _like_ to be ignored.

And of course, he recalled that there had been one Peter Lindstrom among the list of Baxter’s recent ex-employees.

The salad was suddenly set in front of him, and Finch wondered if John had managed to find out anything from eavesdropping among the other staff.

“I don’t suppose,” he started, and trailed off as a young woman with red hair smiled down at him.

“Is there something else you’d like?” she asked.

“Well, you’re not the man who took my order,” he managed. What was Reese up to?

“I’m sorry, he had to speak to the manager. If there’s anything else you need, I’ll be happy to get it for you.”

Finch declined, and felt a surge of frustration as she went to serve at another table. Really, he was in the same establishment as Reese, and he knew less about what the ex-operative was doing than if he was in the library and Reese only connected to him by an open channel.

It didn’t help that he was suddenly concerned. Summoned alone to speak to their number could mean he’d picked up that Reese was perhaps not as experienced at waiting tables as he’d let on. It could be that Reese had spotted something indicative of the threat they were here to resolve and decided to act. 

It could be that the manager was the threat in which case Reese might already be in a difficult situation.

Finch picked at the salad, telling himself that Reese was more than capable of defending himself against any peril. It wasn’t as if he could go striding into the staff only section and start opening doors until he found his employee.

And if he stumbled into a physical confrontation between Reese and the manager – well, it would be short lived, for one – he would not be of any real use to the former soldier. More likely he would simply be in the way or prove a distraction for John, having to worry about his safety as well as winning the fight.

All the same, when John didn’t appear again in the next few minutes, Harold found himself quite unsettled. Decided, he got up and walked between the tables and straight through the employees’ only door. He was fortunate that it was a busy night and no one seemed to notice his intrusion.

He found himself in a long corridor with only two doors. The one at the end had an illuminated ‘fire escape’ sign above it. The other was simply a door, and Finch had his fingers wrapped around the handle, ‘I’m sorry, I thought this was the bathroom,’ already on his lips.

Harold shoved the door open and, when he saw who was inside, entered and quickly closed it behind him.

“That was fast work, Mr. Reese?” he offered, unsure whether Baxter unconscious in his chair and John busily rifling the contents of his desk meant their case had reached an abrupt conclusion.

Still, if Baxter was up to no good and John was uninjured, it would also be a satisfactory one.

“I’d like to think at least some of them will be this easy,” John said. He came around the desk, held out a handful of glossy photos. “We need to talk about you staying out of the line of fire.”

Harold took the pictures, glancing briefly at the unconscious man. “I’m sure the only one with a gun here is you, Mr. Reese.”

He didn’t need to be watching Reese to know the look he was getting could have stripped paint. “You step into a _situation_ , Finch, you become the weapon.”

The pictures showed a shirtless man being held down on the desk John had been going through. There were three other men crowded around him, Baxter being one, and the attention they were bestowing did not appear welcome or appreciated. Harold glanced over the first six or seven images, like a slow motion flicker show. The story they told was not a pleasant one, and Baxter featured on every page as a man who clearly thrived on power. And its abuse.

Finch could not miss the similarity between the dark haired male in the photos and Reese. He turned a caustic look at Baxter. 

“A talk?”

Reese shrugged. “I guess we were lucky he has a type. There’s a name on the back of the photos.”

“Yes, I will celebrate our good fortune later that you attracted the attentions of this....” He trailed off, turning over the first picture. ‘Peter’ was written in neat block lettering.

That explained the unanswered and increasingly angry texts.

“The only thing we need to know now,” John said, “is who was taking the photos.”

“Yes,” Harold said, because of course Baxter’s hands were busy. There was always the possibility he had used a timer, but some of the shots captured too well the height of emotion in the scenes. Lindstrom’s vulnerability. The thrill of power in every taut muscle as Baxter pressed on his abdomen to hold him down. “And have a discussion about you not keeping me advised when you are venturing into the lair of a sadist.”

John bristled. “You hired me to do a job, Harold. This is me doing my job.”

Of course, he knew Reese was right. But it was one thing to have predicted for John their prospects of survival when he was trying to recruit him and quite another to contemplate Baxter’s plans when he had summoned John to the office. To begin to groom him.

“You doing your job isn’t the problem,” he said. “It’s how you keep me informed when are you doing it.”

But he supposed he was going to have to get used it. This wasn’t the type of work they could do at a safe distance and there would be occasions when John wouldn’t have time to brief him before acting.

Without warning, John leapt at him.

Harold startled, wondering in a brief second if he’d seriously misjudged Reese; perhaps it was PTSD, perhaps he was simply a psychopath, and the price for that misjudgement would be grievously high.

Then Reese’s hand closed on the back of Harold’s neck and he moved him – spun him aside.

Harold had time to be astonished that Reese had done it without hurting him before a hiss of pain snapped his attention back to the operative.

Reese stepped back, keeping himself between Harold and the red haired waitress who’d served the salad. She had a kitchen knife in her hand, and was waving it at John in huge scything arcs. 

“I always knew he’d push too far one day, attract the wrong kind of attention. You cops?”

Reese was moving - always keeping himself between the woman and Harold. “You need to put down the knife.”

The woman laughed. “Of course, not a problem. Fuck, this is all his fault. I just...all I did was nudge people at him and then take the pictures.” She waved the weapon at Baxter before pointing it at Reese again. “I can’t walk away and leave any of you standing.”

She lunged forward suddenly, and Harold had to act. The chair was right there, and even though it cost him his balance, he was able to put his foot against it and kick it at her. 

She tumbled over it, and John took the opportunity to kick the knife from her hand. He slammed a punch into her face, sending her unconscious to the floor, where she landed a few feet from Finch.

Harold pushed himself awkwardly upright. His back hadn’t hurt this much since a certain person had slammed him against a wall, but to be fair John had woken to find himself ostensibly kidnapped and half tied to a bed so Harold knew allowances there were appropriate.

Getting to his feet, on the other hand, would require assistance.

John was at his side before Harold even knew he’d approached. “This is why we need to talk about you stepping into things,” he said. 

Harold held out his hands and Reese took them. “We need to get me on my feet, first. Yes, I think perhaps now. And if there’s to be any remonstrating, Mr. Reese....”

The pain twisted around his spine then, and any desire to discuss it further was swallowed up by the desire to keep breathing.

“Okay, hang on.” John’s grip was strong, his support sure. He didn’t try to pull Harold up, had the sense enough to just be something secure for him to hang on to as he inched his way to his feet. After all, Harold knew himself best, knew which way his body would work now and which way it certainly wouldn’t.

He was finally standing up when he felt something slick beneath his fingers. He looked down, saw the dark smudge across the back of John’s hand, and followed it up until it vanished beneath his cuff, until he saw the source – a gaping slice in the white sleeve at his elbow and a gash of at least four inches.

“Harold,” John said, voice tight.

“I think perhaps I should sit down again,” Harold gasped. His hold on John, on consciousness, became frail and almost too much of an effort to fight for. The room sloped away from him, and he fell against something strong and firm; whatever it was it didn’t yield.

And apparently it had arms because they were wrapped around him now, holding him up.

“It’s ok, I’ve got you,” John said. “It’s ok.”

I’m sure, Harold wanted to say, but then he remembered that John’s arm was hurt and there was blood, and that was enough to push him under all the way.

:: ::

He flirted briefly with consciousness an undetermined time later – waking at one point stretched out across the back seat of his car – but neither of them seemed particularly well suited to the other, and so went their separate ways.

The next time he was reasonably aware of what was going on around him, he was lying flat on the couch at the library, the woollen blanket from the rest room draped across him.

John was sitting in the muted light of the desk lamp, reading a book. His gun was on the desk by his side.

“Welcome back,” he said, without looking up. “I suppose you were going to mention at some point that you fainted at the sight of blood.”

“Most likely the result of adrenalin,” Harold corrected. “I take it the situation in the office has been resolved?”

John looked up from the book; his finger marked his place. “I phoned the NYPD from the car, but I left the photos in the office, in plain sight. Fusco’ll take it from there. Finch – is there anything else I need to know?”

Harold sat up carefully, testing his ability to be upright and conscious at the same time. It seemed possible, so he focused as well as he could on the man sitting across from him.

“Are you keeping my glasses as incentive for co-operation?”

Reese gave him a half-grin and came over with a spectacle case in his hand. Harold put on his glasses, blinked a few times, and looked up at the former CIA agent.

“There are probably many things you’d like to know, Mr. Reese. But no, nothing else you actually _need_ to. Apologies if that disappoints.”

But John didn’t look disappointed. More...annoyed, than anything else. Finch had the feeling he’d wounded him a little, but at the moment he was irritable and tired, and had the beginnings of a terrible headache.

“If you want, I’ve got some tea for you.”

Harold did, and sat nursing the cup for a while. John had retreated to the desk and returned his attention to the book. 

“Thank you for not letting me fall,” he managed, after a while, because he owed Reese that at least.

“It’s fine.” Reese didn’t look up.

“Are you...are you sulking?” It sounded ridiculous even to his ears, but his headache was worse, and there had been a traumatic experience very recently. He felt somewhat distant still from everything.

John looked up with a frown. He put down the book and came over. “You’ve got meds here, right? Where do you keep them?”

Harold waved at the filing cabinet next to the stacks. John opened it and took out the orange pill bottles. He looked at each one in turn. He kept one out, put the rest back, and returned to where Finch sat. 

“Here, take these.”

Finch recognised them and used the tea to wash them down. “Of course you aren’t sulking,” he said. “I apologise.”

Reese shrugged. “You fainted. You’ll be a little off for a while, irritable, stubborn. A little hostile. Well, kind of like you usually are.”

“I am not hostile.” Although, he supposed he could see why Reese might think that. But if it kept him from trying to slink further inside Harold’s boundaries then it was worth letting Reese have that impression.

“Right. You should sleep, you’ll feel better.” 

Harold started to stand, but Reese put a hand on his shoulder. “Here, Finch. Where I can keep an eye on you. Unless you want to tell me where you stay and I’ll drive you home.” He smiled innocently.

Finch glared at him but that just made his head hurt worse. “Here is fine. Where will you sleep?”

“At home,” John said. “Tomorrow, when you’re better, presuming we don’t get another number inbetween.”

Reese was willing to spend the night sitting up in a chair to watch him. Of course, his motivation and reasons had to be considered suspect. Harold might talk in his sleep. It might be an opportunity to sneak around the library and see if there was anything revealing to be found.

Or perhaps it was simply that he was genuinely concerned about the man upon whom his security depended. After all, as far as Reese knew, he would be back where he started if anything happened to him.

It wasn’t entirely true – he’d arranged a contingency for John in the event that he himself was killed or forced to leave. He wasn’t so cruel as to recover John from his life of deprivation only to have him thrown back into it because of a lack of foresight.

He just hadn’t told John yet because it was hard to find the right moment or the right way.

Of course, there was always the chance it was simply genuine concern. He knew enough about Reese to accept that as a possibility at least.

“I won’t die on the couch if you go home,” Finch tried. “You should rest between numbers, while there’s an opportunity to do so.”

“Why did you come looking for me at the restaurant?”

The question was sudden, unexpected, and it caught him off guard. “Well....” 

He considered turning it back on Reese, refusing to let him change the subject. But it seemed unfair to dodge awkward topics – he hadn’t allowed Reese that luxury in the hotel room after he’d burst through the door. He had many weaknesses but hypocrisy wasn’t one of them.

“I suppose I was concerned for you,” he finished. “Which reminds me about our unfinished conversation.”

“So let me be concerned for you tonight,” Reese interrupted him. “You’re on strong medication, you ended up in a fight tonight-”

“Kicking a chair hardly counts as being in a fight.”

“And then you fainted. So you will sleep there, Finch, and I will sit here and you can buy me breakfast in the morning if you feel any need to make it up to me. I can’t do this alone.”

Harold took off his glasses, and put them away. His headache was lifting, or else just being blanketed by the pleasant haziness as his painkillers took effect. It didn’t blind him to the fact that he was being ‘handled’ but oddly, he couldn’t seem to mind. 

“I can’t either,” he told Reese. “So please remember that when you go courting avoidable danger. And please try not to get knifed quite so much.”

He remembered the wound, then, and that drove the drowsiness back a bit. He pointed at John’s arm.

“It’s fine,” John said. “No stitches required, just some cleaning and a dressing.”

“Tomorrow,” Harold insisted. “Tomorrow I am taking you to get it looked at properly.”

John was standing over him suddenly, holding up the blanket. Harold didn’t remember when he’d come over. 

“Not necessary, Finch, but if it makes you feel better.”

Harold might have accused Reese of humouring him or might just have been thinking it, but he lay down and Reese covered him up again.

“So...in the morning then. Doctor’s. Then breakfast.”

He heard Reese laugh, low, gentle. “Good night, Harold.”

“Good night, Mr. Reese. Until the morning.”

Harold fell asleep, feeling safe for the first time in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Also a fill for a meme of interest prompt.


End file.
